


tous habillés en blanc

by Ahigheroctave



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahigheroctave/pseuds/Ahigheroctave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Promise me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tous habillés en blanc

It’s not love for Sam that makes her put on the stupid promise ring. It’s not even fleeting adoration or the fear she’ll be forever alone or any of the socially acceptable reasons to take jewelry one step down from an engagement ring. It’s guilt.  
  
She finds herself in a crowded hallway trying to break open his locker with a nail file because she feels some sort of uncontrollable culpability for the fact that she doesn’t love him. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. It makes her dig the file harder in the groove where the door shuts, as if she somehow gets it open and gets the ring on her finger, all her feelings about it and all the dread will just vanish.  
  
“Hey blondie,” a familiar voice rises from behind her and she immediately shoves the blade behind her back. “What are you doing?”  
  
She turns to him, batting away a stray hair that’s come undone from her ponytail in all the hassle with her freehand. “Nothing.” He gives her a look. “Why are you skipping 4th period?”  
  
He grins and holds out a hall pass, “Napping in the nurse's office. They got new beds.” She rolls her eyes at him, but his elation doesn’t dwindle. “You feel like joining me? The lady they got to replace Ms. Schue is totally old. We could hook-up in there and she wouldn’t even notice.”  
  
The feeling in the pit of her stomach comes back, causing her to squeeze the file so hard that she draws blood. “Shit,” She drops it on the floor by accident and before she can even bend over, he’s got it in his hand.  
  
“What the hell were you doing?” He turns it over, running a finger along the blade. “You aren’t like suicidal now are you? I read some stuff about post-partum-”  
  
She snatches it out of his hand and suddenly something inside her snaps, “I know you’re trying to help, but can you just not?” He stares at her for a minute and she feels like squirming, feels like running, feels like being anywhere but there. Instead she meets his gaze head on and prays she won’t blink first.  
  
She doesn’t. He does. He follows it with the bowing of his head, looking like a lost puppy. “Whatever, I’ll see you around.” He starts to walk off, hands in his pockets. And the whole scene is just a giant case of déjà vu for her.  
  
“Wait,” She hears a voice that sounds a lot like hers call after him. “Help me.”  
  
He’s back at her side in a flash, taking the tool from her hands and slipping it into the rut so seamlessly. The door opens within ten seconds and he smiles smugly, as if he just cured cancer or something rather than breaking and entering. She figures crime is sort of his art though, and she really can’t complain. Instead, she snatches out the little white box as quickly as possible and slams the locker shut.  
  
“All set,” She starts to walk away, in the direction of her class, but she can hear him following behind her. She turns left at the end of the empty school hallway instead of right, and feels him pull swiftly on her arm.  
  
The next thing she knows, she’s pressed up against the wall of the empty choir room. His lips trail the back of her neck and she leans into him, moaning, in spite of herself. “What’s in the box, Q?” He demands, sliding a hand up her thigh until it’s covered in the fabric of her skirt.  
  
“None of your business,” She hisses, reaching backward for the hem of his shirt.  
  
His hand slips under the regulation red panties that come with her Cheerios uniform, and he lets a finger rim her ever so delicately. “Tell me.” She hesitates for a minute. “ _Now_ ,” He breathes the word and she shudders against him. Usually she’s in the position of power, usually, every move she makes leaves him in cowering submission. She can’t say she doesn’t like this side of him though.  
  
“Did Bieber cut propose to you, babe?” He slips it in, stroking her slowly. “Does he want to live in a Barbie dream house and drive that fucking pink convertible?”  
  
“Stop,” She tries to say it seriously, but it’s husky and needy and everything she pretends not to be.  
  
He suddenly slams her around so she’s facing him and sticks the hand up her shirt, reaching up under her sport’s bra and pinching one of her nipples. “Give it to me, Quinn.” She hikes her hips up onto him and holds onto his neck. “The ring,” She tries not to but he reaches for it and suddenly her hands bumble from being too sweaty and sticky and hot and it drops on the floor.  
  
They both look at it for a minute, and then each other. Neither one of them wants to compromise their current position to reach for it, but they both know all the power rests in that little white square at the same time. He flinches first. He dumps her on the piano bench and dives for it, collecting the little package in his guitar-calloused hands. She sits up, watching him walk back over to her and kneel down.  
  
“We don’t agree on a lot.” She nods, it’s like the understatement of the century. “I like Moses, you like Jesus. You like Dirty Dancing and I’d rather watch porn. You’re good at this, the school thing and the likeability and all that shit. I’d like to want it, but I don’t.” He puts a hand on her knee and traces circles on her skin, switching between clockwise and counter every few seconds. She counts the rhythm as she waits for his next words. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. “We’re not good at the talking thing, but you know I love you.” He looks up at her, and the vulnerability in those brown eyes reminds her of that first night, without the haze of wine coolers and virginity floating in the air. “You have to.”  
  
“I do,” It comes out like air. She can feel her lungs lifting and mouth filling with crisp clean happiness.  
  
He pops the box open and stares at it for a minute, “This ugly excuse for a ring,” He smiles to himself. “It’ll be a placeholder for us. This means that right now I can’t offer you a college degree or a white dress inside a church, but someday I hope I’ll grow up enough that I can. And that I’ll be able to get you a real ring that isn’t made of cubic zirconium or from a gumball machine.”  
  
She can feel tears on her cheeks, the beating of her heart, the frantic nodding of her head. “Yes, yes, yes.”  
  
He looks up at her and smiles, “You’ve got to promise me one thing blondie.” She might have to bite her lip to keep from screaming _anything_ at the top of her lungs. “If I do ever get to the point where I can offer you that dress, you can’t wear it to meet Blowfish at the end of the aisle.”  
  
She thinks about a church and a wedding and a string quartet playing the bridal march, and she tries to picture a blond head at the end of the aisle, smiling back at her. All she sees is a Mohawk, and a smug grin, and Beth’s face. “I promise you.”  
  
They spend the rest of 4th period and some of 5th defiling Brad’s piano top. It’s a day well spent.


End file.
